The trod of booted
feet.
Never lift a face
to great.
Hands in pockets
deep.
One block left
to defeat.

Alone yet not
alone.
Carrying thoughts like
stone.
Hunching shoulders
prone.
Coming night, the
unknown.

But something is
unseen.
An aura somehow,
clean.
Wholly real, so
serene.
Yet hidden by a
misty screen.

It shimmers on the
edge.
Surrounding like a
hedge.
Embodiment of a
pledge.
Leading away from the
ledge.

A gentle hand at
night.
When it’s fight or
flight.
Reminding of the
right,
To walk through lonely
night.

©2021 Mary Grace van der Kroef